


Begin Again

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7712164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kevin Li, he’s similar to Chanyeol actually, height, mannerisms, interests. He’s his age, too, even a fan of his work, Minseok had assured. They’d work well together, maybe even as well as he did with Kyungsoo. (childhood author and childhood illustrator au</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> a double crosspost, from awalkinthepark and my lj comm

Chanyeol takes another sip from his hot chocolate, glances at his watch, frowns.

He’s on his third drink. He's also had a mint hot chocolate and a strawberry shake, gone twice to the bathroom for his troubles.

Nervous, jittery, feeling uncharacteristically shy and self-conscious, he'd shown up to the cafe two hours earlier than necessary. He’s been drinking, worrying, fidgeting nervously with the margins of his notebook, fingertips tracing over his own sloppy handwriting in the mean time.

Another sip. Another glance. Another frown.

He’s still got 10 minutes.

He reaches into his pocket, slides his phone open. Closes it. He’d already Googled him—or _tried_ to—an hour ago, but Kevin Li had just turned up ancient articles about some wavy-haired college basketball star and one LinkedIn profile for a cardiologist in his area. “Kevin Li art” had led to an abandoned Deviantart last updated 10 years ago.

Nothing of substance, in short.

Chanyeol types out his name and searches once more, just to double-triple-quadruple check, but still nothing. He drops his phone back into his pocket, resumes his former occupation of worrying, tracing restlessly over the pages of notebook.

Chanyeol is a writer. Children’s literature, mostly fantasy. He specializes in stories about dragons, princesses, fairies, little elves that live at the corner of the woods. His stories are poignant, beautiful, imaginative, honest, explore the themes of self-discovery, acceptance, kindness, seeing beautiful even in the ugly. And the art—Kyungsoo Do’s, KD’s—is beautiful, too, delicate somehow, as enchanting as PCY’s gorgeous prose, smooth, pastel-colored, watercolor creations that really bring PCY’s words to _life_.

Over the course of their partnership, Chanyeol has maybe become codependent, and he feels another flare of panic—mercifully milder at least, milder than it’s been—as he traces over the indent of his character description. Princess—pretty, blonde hair, brown eyes, dressed in all pink with a sneer on her face, beautiful but in a way that you know is cruel and that you’re not supposed to touch or trust.

Another sip. Another glance at his watch. 7 minutes now.

A people person, people pleaser, Chanyeol works well with others, he thinks, is good at adapting to new situations, new relationships with relative ease. He’s likable and affable and charismatic, never lacking for friends or boyfriends. He’s easy to like, good at liking people in turn. But this is different. It’s different, scary, nerve-wracking when it comes to something as private, as sacred as his _work_. And Chanyeol is terrified of being Hall without Oates, Bill without Ted, Penn without Teller.

Kyungsoo, he’s diligent, precise, imaginative, intuitive, able to convey nuance, frailty with every carefully crafted dragon, every meticulously drawn troll. His illustrator, the _only_ illustrator of his heart, Kyungsoo has been decidedly comfortable, decidedly familiar, decidedly _perfect_ , his fucking _soulmate_ he’d informed Kyungsoo when he’d called about his broken arm. Kyungsoo’s voice had been uncharacteristically apologetic throughout the entirety of that phone call as he’d explained that he wouldn’t be able to help that much this time. Kyungsoo was honestly kind of useless at the moment, he’d groaned over the phone. He had to learn how to brush his teeth again, and the night before Joonmyun had had to help him with his chopsticks. And Chanyeol, overcome, panicking, had sent him an edible arrangement, flowers, along with it his hopes and dreams.

The publishing house had promised they’d send someone else in his stead, but Chanyeol sympathetic and worried as he was for Kyungsoo’s well-being, he didn’t _want_ someone else.

No, Chanyeol and Kyungsoo were _magic_ , natural chemistry, a once-in-a-lifetime kinda deal. And _of course_ , Chanyeol had come to expect that this would be a forever type of deal, an almost marriage though Kyungsoo’s own husband Joonmyun would probably object. (His vote didn’t count, anyway, he’d informed him on multiple occasions).

It’s kind of like making a baby, Chanyeol likes to think, the loving, painful labor of creation, cooperation, both parties consolidating their strengths into something that is wholly their own. You need a partner you can trust to do it properly, and honestly he’s not quite sure if Kevin Li will be a good fit, doesn’t even really want to try him out to see if he even is. No, he would rather wait out Kyungsoo’s injury, rest on this tried and true thing.

His agent disagrees, insists that it will be a good learning opportunity. Kevin Li, he’s similar to Chanyeol actually, height, mannerisms, interests. He’s his age, too, even a fan of his work, Minseok had assured. They’d work well together, maybe even as well as he did with Kyungsoo.

That’s impossible, Chanyeol had thought about insisting, before deciding against it, as pettiness didn’t suit him.

It is, though, Chanyeol _knows_ this.

Chanyeol’s leg jerks suddenly with nerves, bumping against the table as he glances at the door for a change.

He’d been told to wear some identifying mark—a woolen newsboy cap—and he spares it a nervous touch as he glances at his watch once more.

Another glance. Another sip. A restless rattle of his now empty cup.

3 minutes now.

He’s contemplating ordering another drink—maybe a croissant—when the bell chimes, noting another customer’s entrance.

Chanyeol glances up, then bites his lower lip hard, squeezes his empty cup even harder.

This new customer, he’s really fucking _hot_. All long legs, dark hair, leather-bound limbs, silver jewelry, cool grace, he has a commanding sort of presence as he strides across the door, and Chanyeol spares him a long, lingering glance, tugging absenty at his hat, fighting the urge to make eyes and further distract himself from the unpleasant task at hand.

He’s still got 2 minutes. An entire new relationship to build and a subsequent children’s book to illustrate, too. But it’s a matter of taking it one step at a time.

Maybe Chanyeol _should_ order another drink, though. Vanilla this time. Or get that croissant that he’s been eyeing at the display counter.

The hot man, though, continues to interrupt his thoughts, disturb his waiting as he steps closer, ducks down to meet Chanyeol’s eyes.

“Are you Chanyeol?” he tries, voice surprisingly soft with hesitation.

Chanyeol blinks, nods, recovers with a smile, an outstretched palm. “Yes.”

“I—I was expecting you to be a chubby middle-aged man with glasses.” He laughs, and it’s a nice, loud laugh. Only just a little too loud. He takes Chanyeol’s hand in his shakes, shakes it firmly. “I’m Kevin. Call me Kris, though,” he says, nose wrinkling, and the silver in his ear glimmers as he bows shyly once, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “That’s my pseudonym. Kris with with K.”

And Chanyeol swallows, blinks, releases his hand, motions for Kris to sit down. “Like...um...Kris Jenner?”

“No, like that Japanese dagger, you know because they’re...cool,” he corrects, vague disgust registering on his face. And he trips over himself as he sits, accidentally knocks over Chanyeol’s pencil. He apologize with a sheepish, charming smile.

Kris orders an orange latte, and they talk.

They _are_ similar, Chanyeol finds, within a couple of minutes. Shared interests, shared tastes, shared dispositions.

And it’s cute the way Kris’ nose pinches at the heat of his coffee when he takes his first sip. Charming, too.

Everything about him is, honestly, and Chanyeol doesn’t bother to fight the charmed smile tugging at the corner of his lips

Kris has got a handsome, pleasant face, a pleasantly deep voice, pleasantly warm eyes—warmer than Kyungsoo’s have ever been when regarding him. And it honestly feels a little like a blind date, a good one, the kind whose number he’d keep, whose lips he’d maybe even try to kiss.

“They told me you’re writing about dragons again,” Kris says after a while, a non sequitur as Chanyeol pauses to tug out his phone, look up more information about an upcoming concert from that indie rap collective that Kris _also_ listens to.

Chanyeol closes his tab at that, pockets his phone with a nod, looks up to see Kris smiling, less wide this time, much more shy.

“I like them, too,” Kris continues. “Your dragons. Dragons, in general.” A pause, a nervous laugh. “I’m excited to draw them.”

And oh yes a reminder that this _isn’t_ just a matter of chemistry, intrigue, subtle attraction. A reminder that this is _work_.

Kris uses mostly watercolors, pastels, prefers really vivid pictures, but he also enjoys dragons, fairies, trolls, he reveals around a gummy smile, fingers skating a little nervously around his bound portfolio.

The nervousness only seems to mount as he slides open his binder, turns it sideways for Chanyeol to see. But he turns the glossy pages easily enough, fingers trembling only slightly, his breath leaving in a relieved sigh when Chanyeol makes his first murmur of approval.

And Kris is good. Undoubtedly. There’s something macabre and magnificent and utterly terrifying about every piece, long shadows and sharp corners and harsh eyes, the kind of monsters that Chanyeol would have whimpered about in the dark as a child, asked his older sister to help him banish.

Chanyeol is unable to look away.

Kris, detecting Chanyeol’s awed sort of wonder and terrified intrigues, becomes looser with confidence, recounting their creation, the mediums, the inspiration. Chanyeol can hear the smile in his voice, the quiet pride of it page by page.

“A dragon,” he pronounces softly a dozen pages in. His tone is shy, but meaningful as he pauses to drag his fingers over the tail. It’s a terrifying, beautiful dragon, and Chanyeol follows his example and touches it, too, fingers skating over the plastic cover, just barely brushing Kris’ own fingers as he traces over the bright red scales along its belly.

Impressed as he is, Chanyeol finds himself frowning just slightly at the sharp talons, glinting fangs. And a children’s writer, Chanyeol can’t help but to think there should be a roundness to his claws, a softer color to his scales, how maybe there should be a gap between his teeth or curl to his mouth or a floppiness ears to _soften_ him.

“Have you ever illustrated a children's book?” he asks, glancing up, and Kris’ smile falters just slightly, some of the brightness seeping out of his eyes, wideness seeming to melt out of his shoulders. That tremble is back in his fingers as he turns to the next page—a large, looming wolf, and there’s something like worry furrowing his heavy brows.

“No, I haven’t. I was commissioned once for um Highlights, one of those short stories for Halloween, so it was allowed to be scary. Only three pictures. The biggest was the size of my palm.” He lifts his hand to demonstrate. “So this is new, but I’m really excited to try.”

Chanyeol can feel his own face and voice pinch with hesitance, but he tries to control it. He doesn’t want Kris’ smile to fall further. “This is just very…”

“Adult, I know,” Kris concedes, turning the page. A sea snake, its curled tail disappearing into the inky waters. “Dark. This isn’t what I draw when I draw for kids. This is—this is what I draw when I want adults to be impressed.”

 _He wanted me to be impressed_ , Chanyeol imagines, with a slow curl of something fluttery and heated in his chest.

And Kris admits that here aren’t examples of that, Kris’ attempts at children’s art. Just the promise of Kris’ bright smile, Chanyeol decides, the twinkle of excitement in his dark eyes.

Kris finishes his latte, orders a croissant, and Chanyeol orders one, too.

They agree to meet again in two days. Kris’ home, where he keeps all his supplies, that way they can get started with the art. Kris scrawls his address for Chanyeol on the margin of his notebook. He hesitates then draws a picture. Blocky and almost childishly clumsy, a stick figure with thick eyebrows, crooked limbs, mismatched eyes, an oversized smile. A self portrait.

Chanyeol smiles as he tears the page free, folds it into the flap of his notebook.

 

Kris’ apartment is small but beautiful. Simple, soft beiges and off-white decor, a variety of prints—his art school friends’—hung around the halls. It’s a study of minimalism, save for the ornate dragon statue, ostentatious and over-the-top, perched high on one of Kris’ shelves.

I like dragons, Chanyeol remembers him saying.

Urging him inside once Chanyeol’s kicked off his shoes, Kris leads him through the doorway, towards a large, white bookcase. Grinning shyly, shoulders rolling beneath his loose black shirt, he points to Chanyeol’s books on his shelf, the bright spines a shock of color against the harder, thicker books—novels, textbooks, National Geographic periodicals.

“I have a niece,” he divulges, tugging one book free. “Well, best friend’s baby. She likes your books. The one about the frog princess that eats mosquito pancakes is her favorite.” A pause as he rights the book on the shelf. “Mine, too.”

Kris offers him a drink then leads him into his _studio_. His sketchbook, canvas, art supplies are already prepared, arranged in a neat circle, and he smiles at Chanyeol as he sits down, motions for Chanyeol to sit, too. Chanyeol, for the sake of symmetry, tugs out his own notebook.

Pen poised between his fingers, lips parted as he regards the blank page, he can feel Kris’ eyes on him.

“How do you usually do it with Kyungsoo?” Kris asks, hesitating as he reaches for his pencil, his eraser, and Chanyeol smiles in fond, bittersweet recollection. Kyungsoo, his _soulmate_.

“I read the story to him, and he tries to visualize it. He sketches while he listens, and then I read off my own character notes. We’re supposed to come to some sort of agreement, but it’s _always_ the same.”

He can feel the frown in his voice, imagines that it’s obvious from how Kris’ face pinches with hesitance.

“It’s always very natural with Kyungsoo,” he admits softly. “He always—you know, you’ve met him. He’s this tiny, angry man, and he’s always chiding me for being childish and naive, but he sees the world the same way as me. Always exactly the same as me.” Chanyeol taps his temple, and Kris lets out this little huff of a laugh.

“I can’t promise that,” Kris concedes after a beat, rolling up his sleeves, “but I think we can try to work something out, see it similar enough.” Chanyeol’s eyes linger on the curl of black ink on lean muscle, tan skin, before skittering back to his own fingers. He rifles quickly through his notebook for the words.

So Chanyeol reads, and Kris nods as he listens, head tilting to the side, lips pursing, fingers skating nimble and large and skilled over the paper.

Kris watches the paper, urges him not to look until it’s finished, and Chanyeol watches him instead, eyes skating from his own words to Kris’ bent form.

And Chanyeol finds that Kris and Chanyeol, they don’t see the world in the same way. Not at all.

There isn’t nuance in it, none of the grace and splendor of his other _dark_ , _adult_ drawings. No _heart_.

There’s a crude, blocky, lumpy sort of cuteness to it almost, like something that Chanyeol might find drawn on the margins of an elementary kid’s notebook. A princess with spindly arms and scribbled ringlets and a sharp smile. And it honestly might have worked for someone that is not Chanyeol, he can see that. Has seen that, in other people’s books, but never—not ever—his own.

And with a start, Chanyeol realizes that he’s been staring for a while, and that Kris is still smiling at him expectantly, asking—at least with his mouth, if not his twinkling eyes—for Chanyeol’s honestly.

“It’s—,” Chanyeol starts, stops. Kris’ dark, menacing eyebrows furrow with worry. “That’s not how I would have imagined it,” Chanyeol pronounces delicately, after a moment.

And it’s cute how his face pinches at that, utterly endearing, but Chanyeol tries not to let that show on his face, tries not to get distracted. This is important. Of utmost importance.

Kris hangs his head heavily, peeks up at Chanyeol through his eyelashes with an exasperated, deferential laugh.

He asks to look over Chanyeol’s notes, his own crude, crude sketches of it—the princess on her birthday, selfish and spoiled asking her older brother to kill the dragon for her so she can take all of its collected treasures.

With a rueful smile, a crinkled nose, a tapping pencil, Kris hums, nods again, pulls out his pencil and eraser and sketches again.

“She’s still pretty, you know. Just not on the inside,” Chanyeol says after a while as he watches him work, allowed to watch him work this time. “It’s not—not as subversive if she looks ugly on the outside, too.”

Less confident this time, Kris asks more questions as he sketches, pausing to ask about the size of her eyes, her mouth, the length of her hair.

And it’s rough still, not quite as perfect as it would be, the lines not so neatly formed, eraser used to sparingly, but it’s closer to his vision.

And Kris’ smile when he hears this is utterly blinding.

Chanyeol goes home a good hour later, supervising Kris’ character sketches for another 40 minutes then getting a belated tour of the apartment, getting a more thorough look at Kris’ art.

He takes the bus back home.

He finds another drawing in his notebook when he opens it. Chanyeol and Kris this time. Chanyeol’s wearing a newsboy cap, ears peeking out, eyes oversized and twinkling. He’s smiling, standing next to Kris. It’s less scrawly, more loopy, neat, like Kris had worked harder on it this time.

Chanyeol tears it free, tucks it in his notebook once more.

He texts Kris, and they agree to meet for the next several days at the same time, after Kris’ shift at the local bar.

 

They are testaments in contained disasters, Kris’ subsequent drawings. The king, the queen, the young prince.

Chanyeol is often frustrated, but not quite put out enough to be blunt. He simply watches Kris work with increasing alarm, decreasing patience, mounting intrigue, guides him until it’s something _salvageable_. And Kris smile is still so hopeful after every meeting, and Chanyeol doesn’t yet have the impression that he’s completely wasting his time.

They’re finding a rhythm of sorts, Chanyeol likes to think. There’s something _there_ , and not _just_ the sort of breathlessness that overcomes him every time Kris’ fingers accidentally brush his, every time he catches the ripple of muscles beneath Kris’ often too-tight shirts.

Kris’ gift drawings continue, too. The third drawing is a squirrel with a squire’s cap. The fourth is a frog king. The fifth, a dragon sipping tea.

 

 

But the sixth day, sixth meeting, it’s a hard one. Chanyeol’s grocery store is out of kimchi, yes they’ve checked the back, sir, maybe he could back on another day. And he’d missed his bus on the way here, stepped on gum, spilled water on his pants, too.

Grouchy, he isn’t filled with the faintest stirrings of butterflies, of affection when he sees Kris, and he’s curter than he needs to be when Kris welcomes him inside, sits across from him on his wooden table as he tries to get it _right_ again.

Face pinched with it—his bad, bad mood, Chanyeol watches Kris try—and fail—once more, and he can’t _take_ it.

He doesn’t want to say “Let’s try again,” doesn’t want to try again, doesn’t want to be patient or anything less than churlish and childish . No, irritation tickling beneath his skin, he wants it to already be good, already be natural. It’s been a week, and they have yet to click, create something beautiful completely organically.

And Chanyeol’s foul mood, it makes him blunter. Less kind.

“No, this isn’t _right_.”

Kris face pinches with concern at that, maybe hurt. There’s the hint of a pout on his bottom lip. He sighs with a slow nod, fingers skating self-consciously over the honestly _awful_ dragon he’d spent the past 20 minutes sketching. “What’s wrong—uh, not right with it?”

“It just feels—disrespectful,” he finally manages, not meeting Kris’ eyes, watching instead the skate of his own fingers over the clumsy drawing.

“I mean...this is cute, but...” he sighs, allows himself, apprehensive and nervous, to watch Kris’ chest. “ _Yes_ , this is for kids, and _yes_ , this is like something they might try to draw if you asked them to draw you a dragon, but you have to have more...sense about the way that kids see the world. The way they imagine the world, too. What they see when you tell them someone is ugly and beautiful. And how they _want_ to be able to draw. You have to appeal to that, too. Your other drawings, they’re too harsh and too real, but this is too _simple_ —I don’t think my readers would appreciate this art.”

Kris swallows like he can take it, so Chanyeol just keeps going.

“I just don’t—I don’t think you understand kids,” Chanyeol divulges, delicately, his frown deepening. Probably enough for it to be offensive, if Kris’ reaction is anything to go by. “I know you have a niece, but I think more kids would be good for you. One of my friends works at the library. I usually go to read to them. If you get clearance, you should be able to read to the kids, too. Ask them to help you with your drawings.”

He tacks a smile at the end of his sentence, and Kris smiles back after a beat, his eyes even crinkling with it.

Kris’ drawing this time is another portrait. But just of Chanyeol this time. He’s wearing a fitted hat, has angry tilted eyebrows, and a scowl on his face. His limbs are proportional this time, at least.

 

They go on a Saturday.

Chanyeol, feeling a sort of delayed guilt for his comments, insists on paying for lunch, at the Subway right beside the library.

They head there afterwards.

Volunteer badge in place, Kris meets with the Little Readers—age range 5 to 8—and Chanyeol squeezes himself on an uncomfortable, hard, blue child’s chair to watch from a few feet away.

Kris is utterly surrounded by children in matching Little Readers tshirts, and he looks extra large surrounded by the extra small.

Kris reads them a book. Thankfully not one of his and then engages in a riveted discussion about dragons, assorted supernatural creatures. And it’s almost painful how awkward and earnest he is, listening as a little girl describes to him in great detail how dragons only like purple fruits, not reds ones, what he might have read was wrong. She’d asked. Also, another boy contributed, voice raising high with conviction, unicorns were just horses that were 1,000 years old, and trolls they were just—were just mushrooms that came to life.

Remembering the reason behind their meeting, Kris asks the difference between scary dragons and good dragons, aesthetically-speaking. How you know when you’re seeing a good dragon and a bad dragon. How you know when you’re seeing a good person, or a bad person.

Chanyeol’s finger itch, as he watches, to tug out his notebook, write down all their insights. But he elects to watch Kris instead, see the way his lips turn up at the corner, the way the light seems to multiple tenfold in his eyes when a little girl says that sometimes dragons, they hide among real people and you know because they are tall and handsome. Like Mr. Kris.

Kris seems hesitant to leave, even when a new age group, a new volunteer requests the room.

 

They stop at a nearby park afterwards, flushed with the residual excitement of childhood intrigue. Just, just to give it another try.

Kris asks to borrow Chanyeol’s notebook and without prompting, starts to draw. Rushed, restless drags of his borrowed pen. A dragon, he responds, when Chanyeol tries to peek. He shoves at his shoulder with one arm as he continues to add details with the other.

He’s smiling—shy, but still wide, glittering in the afternoon light—when he presents it.

And it’s one picture, one dragon, one of the at least 4 he’s going to have to illustrate for the sake of his story, not to mention the scenery, the fearsome dragon hunter the family commissions, but it feels like a victory, like a momentous occasion.

Their visions, they’re intersecting, their views converging.

Grateful, overcome, Chanyeol grasps Kris’ face between his palms, kisses him hard. Kris laughs into it, incredulous and bright, dropping the picture into the process, but he doesn’t make to pull away. He kisses him, too, kisses him back, lips hesitantly parting with it, hands coming up to cradle his cheeks.

They part, foreheads resting against one another, eyes meeting. Chanyeol thinks deliriously that it’s the first time he’s ever had to tilt up to kiss someone as he coaxes Kris’ mouth open once again.


End file.
